Satirnus called off his own troops from the search for the escaped giant; the Taruthani did not.

As they travel along the road to the Nitarin Gate the group will hear a commotion off the right. Making their way through the trees they will come upon nine Taruthani surrounding Ergaboreth and two panthers. All three are wounded and bleeding, but still ready to fight.

The Korönians have clearly been trying to recapture the young giant – they have weighted nets, poles with loops of leather on the ends, drugged darts. It’s these last which have made Ergaboreth woozy and forced him to stand at bay with his back against an immense oak tree.

As the party comes on the scene the two archers in the group are preparing to fire at the panthers. One of them will be mortally wounded, no matter how fast the group acts. But the second cat can be saved.

Once the Korönians are dispatched (if allowed, they will retreat if four or more of their number goes down, or if thier captain, Tekan Korisol, is taken out), the giant and his surviving pet (they reminded him of the cats he kept at home – he named them Keftin and Jengar – and they were charmed by his inate affinity for animals) will need to be healed. Ergaboreth will agree to assist hsi new friends in moving the throne – he is still excited to see the good side of Umantari civilization, despite his recent travails.

The group can return to Lothkir, but given the time restaints they face, going to Elidar manor would be a better course to take. If they don’t come up with this on their own, Master Vetaris will suggest they meet there when Mariala contacts him.

Wherever they go Vetaris will be there to advise them. He will be concrned that the Hand didn’t tell him of the Onyx Throne right away, but will set that aside for the moment. He agrees that the political ramifications of letting Arushal know of the Throne would unneccessarily complicate things right now, and he gets a wicked grin when he hears of the plan to publicly return the Throne, which would remove at least some of Satirnus’ options regarding it. Vetaris has connections in the Republic, and he tells the group to leave that end of things to him – just get the Onyx Throne to Bremkin on time, and he will make sure Senatorial representives will be on hand to witness it.

Vulk’s family will reccommend they seek the use of the local stone mason’s wagon, as it can carry up to a ton of stone, if very slowly. Mason Gherat Vorksul will be agreeable, but will want to come along, with his sons to help him… until he learns of the destination. Then he will not only not wish to go, he’ll be reluctant to even rent out his wagon. In the end the Hand will have to pay twice its value (300 sp) to procure its use.

There are no Gates anywhere near Nirokilon, which was a big part of why the paranoid sociopath who built the place chose the site, above and beyond its great view of the stars. So they will have travel 30 km east to the Gate near Dor Kolvin (which risks discovery by Arushali authorities), or 40 km north, to a lesser known Gate that Master Vetaris knows of, near Benalon Manor, on the banks of the Pelon River. The road north is in better shape than the one east to Kolvin, though the route is longer.

Going in either direction, the group will encounter the new host body of the demon spider they had dispatched on their previous visit to the ruined city. It now possesses a male rokiriki (which Toran would know by the name of Yelgri). He will be surprised to see the creature so far from the mountains. The creature seems to still be learning how to use its new body, but it will recognize the group and attack in a frenzy of rage. Shouldn’t be too hard to kill, but might make an amusing interlude – after an attack or two, which will include flinging shit on one or more of the party, the giant will snatch the harpy from the sky and dash its brains out against the wagon.

Unfortunately, this will damage one of the wheels, necessitating a lengthy delay as the group tries to fix it. They of course will fix it eventually, make it to the Gate, and arrive in Bremkin, with a Republican escort – Satirnus left a squad guarding the Gate, in case the group actually returned. The ten men and their commander will be as surprised as their leader, on entering the town, to find a party of Senators and socialites from the capital had arrived that very morning. Word ahd reached the city that not only had the great general secured the reurn of Bremkin, but had discoverd the long lost Onyx Throne of the Delfari Empire. Such a magnifcent artifact of the glorious past of the Kildoran people deserved to be greeted with all the pomp and ceremony the Senate could produce on such short notice.

When the group meets with Satirnus, in company of five senators, including Aric Kenorda, his long-time foe in the Senate, the great man seems completely at ease and unworried. He makes a gracious speech about the glorious past of Kildora, and how it gratifies him to be able to return to her people such a rare and beautiful piece of that past. He hands over responsibility for the Throne to the senatorial party smoothly and without hesitation.

When, later in the evening, he is able to meet privately with some or all of the Hand, he will seem darkly angry for a moment, then break into his great laugh and congratualte them on a game well-played. He will admit to underestimating their resourcefulness, and wonder how they manged to pull of such a coup in such short time, while still recovering the Throne. He will point out that the existence of the Throne is the important thing, not necessarily who possesses it – at the moment.

Being, in truth, a man of his word, he will assure Erol that his family is quite safe from any reprisals. He will also see to it that the ealrier incidents, including Erol’s slavery, will be excised from the secular records, as promised. But what the Korönians might seek to pursue on their own, he couldn’t say, and if if asked about the removal of the collar around Erol’s neck, he’ll just laugh and say that that is between Erol and the Order of the Fist fo Tarutha.

The big surprise for Erol will be the presence of his father in the entourage of Sentor Kenorda. The father and son reconciliation will be overseen by the Senator, who will later, privately, take Erol aside and thank him for the aid he gave his son Eldok in the Savage Mountains in the month of Sarnia (two-plus months ago). He gives no indication that he is aware of the Star Council or the more subtle machinations that brought him here. Erol’s father, however, gives him the secret sign and the tingling of Erol’s ring reveals his father’s affiliation!

Once the news arrived from Jeb, via Mariala’s entangled parchment, the Hand of Fortune quickly spread out to their various task in preparing to mount a rescue. Vulk and Devrik sought out Master Vetaris, whom they knew to still be in the city, to learn whatever he could tell them about Nitarin Gates near to Bremkin. Mariala and Korwin set about ordering their equipment and supplies, while Toran made sure their weapons were all in top shape.

Master Vetaris was able to gain them use of one of the Crown-held Gates within Lothkir, but the closest Gate to Bremkin was about seven kilometers to the west of the town. In the first hour after dawn the next morning the Hand departed through the Cael Gate, dressed in plain traveling clothes and with Cris leading a pack mule. They appeared in a small glen about half kilometer from the road between Bremkin and Torvasir.

By mid-morning they had made their way into the town of Bremkin and found the Warrior’s Spear, the inn next to the local arena’s barracks where Jeb had taken a room. They were able to secure two rooms on the floor below Jeb, and were soon crowding into his narrow attic chamber to scope out the building across the street where Erol was being held.

“It’s the barracks for the gladiators,” Jeb told them, relating what intelligence he’d gleaned in his talks with the locals. “It’s usually run by a cantor of Korön named Helmun Vurkus, but he’s been displaced temporarily by by some big-wig Deputy Grandmaster from Izmirk… no one I talked to knows his name. Cantor Helumn has been forced to stay with his sister, on the edge of town, ‘cause this new guy had taken over his office and quarters… you can see into both from here… the office and the desk you can see pretty good, but that’s the bedroom, the window off to the right… can’t see as much in there…

“The new guy brought a bunch of gladiators with him, about a dozen they say, and several wagons with caged wild animals. There was also a very large wagon, completely sealed, that no one seems to know anything about, but there’s lots of guesses what might’ve been in it – a cave bear, a rock troll… one old coot was sure it was a great bronze golem!”

Jeb had been watching the comings and goings as well as he could, and knew that fresh produce deliveries were made every morning to the back door, where a single guard seemed to stand watch inside… a cook and two helpers brought in the merchandise, and yesterday several kegs arrived an hour or so after the vegetable.

The front entrance was guarded by two soldier-looking fellows, who questioned any visitors before they were allowed in. A captain of some sort was sometimes summoned, apparently to vet visitors who were’t expected. Various citizens seemed to be interested in the quality of the new gladiators, apparently in aid of figuring proper odds on the rumored up-coming games. There seemed little trouble in bribing guards to get in to watch the gladiators practice, which Jeb himself had actually done the afternoon before.

“I saw Ser Erol,” he said excitedly. “He was all done up in gladiator stuff, and he was kicking the shi- er, stuffing – outta the other gladiators, mostly. There was this one guy, big, with jet black hair, who gave his a workout, though!”

By mid-day the Hand was ready to do their own reconnaissance of the arena and the barracks, confirming much of what Jeb had told them. It was decided that Mariala and Korwin would pose as out-of-town buyers interested in purchasing a slave, to see if it could be as simple as just buying Erol back.

The first stop was the arena, however, to see if one of the guards could be persuaded to let them in to view the training gladiators. Mariala wanted to try one of the new spells she had gleaned from the notebooks of the Mad Astrologer Koltorin, and used the Tongue of Khorthal to convince the man that it was perfectly reasonable to let her and her companion in. It worked like… well, like a charm.

“And it saves us money on bribes,” Korwin commented as they mounted the wide yellow sandstone steps into the stands.

They strolled to the stone railing that separated the spectator stands from the square floor of the arena itself, some 4 meters below them. On the brilliant yellow-white sands a dozen gladiators sparred, one-on-one, while other men, apparently trainers, called out critiques or commands. Armed men, like those guarding the arena entrances obviously fighting men of the Order of the Iron Fist of Tarutha, stood at the four corners.

Mariala’s eye was immediately drawn to a pair close below them and to the right – a tall, black haired man with a gladius and shield, and a shorter man in hemet and harness, wielding a trident. It took a moment to be sure, as his face was in shadow, but she soon confirmed that the shorter fighter was Erol. She nudged Korwin and nodded toward their erstwhile companion. They drifted down the railing, closer to where the two fought.

Erol caught sight of them as they moved, and almost failed to block a vicious swing from his opponent. He quickly refocused on the fight, for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, he turned and sprinted off, obviously to the great surprise of his sparring partner. He headed straight for the nearest guard, raising his trident as if to spear the man, who stood in stupefied shock for only an instant before reaching for his own weapon.

But he only had it half-drawn when Erol suddenly collapsed to the sand with a strangled scream, to writhe in apparent agony for a moment before going suddenly limp. The guard slammed his sword back into its sheath, laughing, and aimed a solid kick at the unconscious man before the black-haired gladiator ran up to pull his fellow fighter away. They couldn’t hear what he said, but the guard laughed again and turned back to take up his post.

Erol seemed to revive as his companion dragged his to his feet, none the worse for whatever had happened… except for the kick to his ribs, apparently, as he rubbed gingerly at the spot. He carefully didn’t look again towards his friends in the stands.

After a few more minutes of making a show of watching other gladiator pairs, in case anyone was watching them in turn, Mariala and Korwin departed the arena. She thanked the friendly guard who had let them in, giving him a bright smile as they passed him on their way out to the street. Heading back to the inn, their attention was drawn to a town crier bellowing forth the news of the town’s pending return to the authority of the Republic – and the declaration of a celebratory session of the Taruthani Games to be held day after tomorrow.

Now they had a firmer timetable… and in five minutes they were back at the inn and closeted with the others. There was no need to pass on the news of the Games, as everyone had heard it through the open windows.

“It’s obvious Erol is being constrained,” Mariala said, after describing what they had witnessed in the arena. “I noticed that he alone, of all the gladiator-slaves we saw, wears a collar of some smooth, silvery metal. I’m guessing he attacked that guard to show us what the collar can do.”

“Do you thing the guard had some control device?” Vulk asked. “Something we could steal, perhaps…?”

“I don’t think so,”she answered thoughtfully. “The guard seemed startled, and started to draw his weapon before Erol collapsed. I think that kick was chagrin at being lured into reacting at all… no, I think the device must prevent him from attacking his captors, somehow… but not his fellow gladiators, obviously.”

“If anyone has a control device,” Toran suggested, “it would be this Deputy Grandmaster, I should think.”

It was decided that they should continue on with the ploy of out-of-town buyers, but with the addition of Toran as their artificer/advisor. That way Toran could try to touch the Deputy Grandmaster, which would allow him to use his amulet of illusion to impersonate the man should he prove unwilling to simply sell Erol.

They would claim to be from the Republican town of Lakona, which sits on the border of both Dürkon and Nolkior, explaining their accents and any lapses they might make in social matters. Mariala would be recently widowed, and newly moved to the capital, now scouring the countryside looking for “investments” for her large inheritance.

This story, and Mariala’s spot-on impersonation of a snooty upper-class lady, got them past the street guards at the barracks and into the presence of the guard captain. He was courteous enough, introducing himself as Captain Rohar Geffen of the Order of the Iron Fist of Tarutha. He seemed slightly taken aback when Toran offered his hand, but quickly rallied and shook it firmly. Mariala offered he hand for a kiss, and Korwin just looked aloof.

After a few questions he agreed to see if Deputy Grandmaster Tramano had time to see them, and departed up the nearby stairs. The companions were left in a wide corridor that was blocked off to the left by a massive set of bronze gates, which apparently lead to the gladiator-slave quarters.

Captain Geffen returned shortly and informed them that the Deputy Grandmaster could spare them a few minutes, motioning them to follow him. At the head of the stairs they found themselves at a solid-looking oak door off to the left, flanked by two stone-faced guards in deep red tunics. Bronzed chain mail glinted beneath, and nasty-looking maces of black iron with red flames enameled on the heads hung at their waists. They looked extremely competent. And humorless. They were also obviously not under Captain Geffen’s command.

After he had escorted them stiffly past the body guards and into a large, well-appointed office, the guard captain departed, closing the massive door behind him. The room ran the length of the southern end of the building, with two large windows on the long wall and one at the east end, all slightly open, letting in a breeze as well as the afternoon sunlight. A large cabinet of dark wood, finely carved, dominated the north wall, and the wood floors were covered by several animal skin rugs – a black bear and a badger, Korwin thought.

At the far end of the room was a large, ornate table of a similar dark wood, its top covered in green leather, obviously being used as a desk. A slender man of middle height, dressed in the dark red, gold trimed robes of a Korönian cantor rose from the chair behind the desk and stepped out to greet them.

“I am Gordek Tramano, Deputy Grandmaster of the Order of the Seven Pillars,” he introduced himself. “I understand you are interested in purchasing yourself a gladiator, Lady Greenkeep?”

“Indeed I am, reverend sir,”Mariala said, stepping forward and extending her hand to be kissed. With a slight glint of amusement, Tramano took it and bent his head slightly.

“These are my traveling companions and partners,”she continued, indicating Korwin and Toran. “Egbert Timpledink, my late husband’s Master of Slaves, and Andor Stoneheart, of Dürkon, his Master Weaponeer.”

Tramano pointedly ignored Toran’s proffered hand, simply bowing, very slightly, to each man as he was named. He leaned back against his desk, and motioned that Mariala should continue.

“I have decided to invest some of my excess capital in the Taruthani Games in Delfarin,” she said, smiling winningly at the man. “I have already purchased one gladiator, in the capital itself, but I’ve been advised that better bargains, and unknown gems, might be better found in the hinterlands. And indeed, after what I saw today in your arena, I believe that might be true.”

“Ah, you’ve seen my men at work, then,” Tramano said. “And do you have some particular man in mind?”

“Two, actually, sir! They fought together, and seemed both remarkably skilled and brutal… just what I’m looking for. One was tall and possessed of  jet black hair, the other shorter, with a silver collar around his neck.”

Tramano stiffened slightly, and his manner became suddenly much cooler.

“You do seem to have a good eye, Lady Greenkeep,” he said shortly. “Or your advisors do. But I’m afraid you have set your sights too high. Those are my two best men, and are not for sale at any price.”

“Really? Not even the shorter one? I rather thought he might be a bargain, since he seemed to have a fit of some sort… a marvelous fighter, but if he has the falling sickness… or was it the collar he wore? Is it some device you use to control the difficult ones? If so, would you be willing to sell me one or two of those–”

Now the cleric’s demeanor was positively glacial, and he rose from his desk, reaching for a large bronze bell behind him. He rang it three times, and the door instantly opened and the two body guards stepped through, hands on their weapons.

“As I said, madame, those men are not for sale… indeed, I think now that you will find nothing for you here. My men will see you out.”

He turned away and resumed his seat behind the desk as the two warriors stepped forward.

“And a word of advice, madame – gladiators are for entertainment only, and should not be used for investment purposes. Especially by ladies who are out of their depth. Good day.”

“But surely we could come to–”

“I SAID good day, madame!”

The two bodyguards loomed ominously behind them, and the three had no choice but to allow themselves to be escorted from the room and down the stairs, where Captain Geffen saw them out of the building.

“What the Void were you thinking?!” Korwin finally exploded when they were around the corner and headed for the inn. “Why did you mention the cursed collar?”

Toran just shook his head and looked away in embarrassment.

“I don’t know,” Mariala shrugged, her face a little pink. “It seemed like a good idea, right up until the words left my mouth.”

Back at the inn, once everyone had been filled in on results of their visit, it was agreed that they really needed to talk to Erol before moving ahead with any rescue plan. Since the only person Toran had been able to touch was the guard captain, it was decided they would watch for him to leave the building, at which point the ninja dwarf might safely impersonate him.

Less than an hour later Mariala, who had been watching the front door while Korwin kept an eye on the back door from the vantage of Jeb’s window, used her entangled parchment to let Toran know Geffen had left the building. She followed him at a discreet distance, to make sure he wasn’t just running out for a packet of sweets or something…

Toran grasped his Amulet of Seeming and muttered the control word, focusing on the image of Rohar Geffen. In a few seconds Jeb confirmed that he now appeared, in every particular, to be the Korönian commander. He quickly set out, approaching the barracks from the same direction in which the real Captain Geffen had departed. The guards seemed surprised to see him again so quickly, but snapped to attention at his irritated grunt. Good, let them think he was annoyed because he’d forgotten something…

Inside, Toran took several sweaty, nervous minutes picking the lock on the bronze gate, but finally did it. He made a quick recon of the building, in short order discovering the main slave barracks (where the men who had practiced this morning now rested), the mess hall, and the individual rooms for particularly favored gladiator-slaves. The last of these was locked, and it again took Toran several tries to jimmy the lock open.

Erol stood posied beyond the door, glaring suspiciously at the Iron Fist captain who stood hesitating in the opening. But he didn’t attack…

It took Toran a moment to remember that he didn’t look like himself just then.

“Erol, it’s me, Toran,” he hissed. “I’m using my amulet to impersonate the guard captain. I don’t know how much time we have, so we need to talk quickly.”

He glanced down at the slip of entangled parchment in his hand – still blank, so the real Geffen wasn’t on his way back yet.

Erol relaxed slightly, but still looked suspicious.

“What is my ferret’s name,” he demanded suddenly.

“Um, er,” Toran mumbled, taken momentarily by surprise. “Oh, it’s Grover, of course. And he was a big help in letting us know you were in trouble – him and Jeb.”

With that Erol accepted that Toran was who he said he was, despite appearances, and they immediately fell to talking in low tones. He filled the Khundari in on what had happened to him, and the very personal nature of the grudge that the Deputy Grandmaster had for him. He also related the daily routines of the barracks and the arena, and what he knew of his fellow gladiators. And most importantly, the nature of the collar that held him prisoner so effectively.

Toran in turn told Erol where the Hand was, and what plans they had made for his release… complicated as they now were by his damn collar. He examined it himself, hoping he might be able to pick whatever locking mechanism held it in place, but it appeared to be a band of solid silver, without hinge or seam.

“Not natural, Void take it,” he grunted, stepping back. “Magic or dark ritual, do you think?”

“Knowing Gordek, it’s a cursed Korönian ritual of some sort,” Erol replied, “and a powerful one. Unfortunately I wasn’t awake when they put it on me, so I’ve got no clue as to how they did it.

“I do know that he wears a bracelet of this same metal, and he can activate the nerve burning with just a touch of it!”

After they had exhausted their mutual store of relevant information, Toran prepared to leave, until Erol remembered one more thing.

“It’s something I heard yesterday, from one of the older men who’s been here since this place was built, five years ago. Apparently the Republic had spies and agents working on the construction, and they managed to build a secret passage between the storage cellars and arena service level. I don’t know if it’s true, but it might be worth looking for…”

Toran agreed, then quickly let himself out of the room, relocked the door, and continued his exploration of the barracks building.

On the second floor he found the bodyguards still in position outside Tramano’s office. He could sense their icy contempt, but they ignored him, for which he was grateful. Turning the corner he found two windowless offices cum bedrooms, in which clerks worked by lamplight – they were confused to find him poking his head in their doors, but disinclined to question him. He was coming to appreciate the aura of fear the Korönian military and religious orders fostered in its subordinates.

At the end of the corridor he found a locked door, which he picked in record time. He was congratulating himself on his increasing skill as he slipped into the dimly lit room, only to be brought up short (how else) by the sound of a gentle snore. He had apparently penetrated the personal quarters attached to the large office, and Gordek Tremano was taking an afternoon nap on the large four poster bed, not three meters from the Dwarf.

His stealth training kicked in automatically, and Toran was able to withdraw from the room without waking the cleric. He briefly considered killing the man where he lay, but assassination wasn’t really his thing, and anyway, until they could figure out how to get Erol out of the collar it seemed foolish to take such an irreversible step…

He had to go back downstairs and into the slave area to find the stairs that led up to the larger portion of the second floor, the area where the gladiators could practice indoors, and where the temporary excess of visiting Iron Fist guards in the Deputy Grandmaster’s entourage slept at night. A pity about that last, Toran thought – the six large skylights might’ve made a good way to sneak in, otherwise.

He next explored the lower level, first using the stairs near Erol’s “room” to access the wide tunnel that led to the service level of the arena across Trident Street. Just before the large double doors that opened into the main chamber were two other sets of doors, one on the north side of the passage, the other on the south. Erol had said they led, respectively, to the menagerie where the animals were kept between games and to the town’s Korönian temple across town.

The service level itself was as large chamber, with a ceiling 4.5 meters high, dominated by the four winches that operated the elevator mechanism used to lower a portion of the arena floor, 6×6 meters square, into the room. Free-standing iron cages lined the east, west and south walls, and contained ragged prisoners destined to be fodder in the upcoming games, four panthers, and – a giant!

Toran had never actually seen one of the Gyantari, but had heard many tales of them growing up. This one looked every bit as wild and ferocious as legend suggested, with a mane of knotted brown hair, and matted beard, clad only in a bear skin loin cloth. His eyes were wild and angry, and he glared at Toran as he passed his (much larger) cage. If he’d been able to stand he looked like he might be close to 5 meters tall!

There could be little doubt that this must be the “big surprise” that Gordek Tramano had planned for Erol and the townsfolk!

The north side of the great room was clearly the domain of the arena’s weaponcrafter, who even now was working with his two apprentices at the large forge centered on the north wall. Tables and racks of weapons lined the wall to either side, and barrels full of spears, tridents and javelins. None of the workers paid more than token attention to Toran as he “made his rounds.”

The only other exits from the room, besides the double doors in the east wall through which he had entered, were flights of stairs in each corner that led to trap doors. Presumably these opened into the ground floor rooms of the arena, beneath the stands, from which the various victims of the Games would enter the actual fighting ring.

Heading back the way he came, Toran finally made his way to the cellars, the stairs to which lay beyond the mess hall and near the rear door of the barracks. It took him only a few minutes to find the concealed door, behind a stack of crates of dried foods and sacks of potatoes. Umantari work, and not all that cleverly hidden, really… a Khundari child could have found it almost as quickly.

Operating the mechanism, he followed the narrow, crude tunnel beyond it (clearly untrod for years) for perhaps 30 or 40 meters, eventually coming to a jog north which ended in a blank wall. Here there was no attempt to conceal the opening mechanism, and he cautiously snicked the stone door open, peering warily into… yes, it was the service level of the arena, as they’d been told.

This end of the secret passage opened in the southwest corner of the large chamber, between the stairs up and westernmost panther cage. Toran carefully stepped out into the shadows, screened from the weaponeers by a large pillar and the dim lighting. Just three meters away the Gyantari turned in his cramped cage to glare at him again.

It was at his point that Toran realized he hadn’t checked his entangled parchment for quite some time… and as he peered down at it now, his heart suddenly lurched! Words had appeared, warning him that the real Captain Geffen was on his way back. Toran cursed his own inattentiveness – how long had the message been there? Did he dare return to the barracks?

No, he decided, the best solution was to exit through the arena, discarding his disguise as he passed through so that it would be a simple Khundari visitor stepping into the street. The blacksmith and his apprentices seemed slightly surprised to see him step from the shadows – hadn’t they seen him leave awhile back? – but they knew better than to question the comings and goings of anyone wearing that uniform.

He crossed the arena as the illusory Captain, ignored by the sweating, grunting gladiators and their trainers, nodded to the nearest guard and stepped into a ready room that appeared to be unoccupied. It was, and he released his disguise before opening the door to the street, strolling out as if he owned the place – and nearly collided with the real Captain Geffen.

They exchanged the nods of recent acquaintances, but the knight seemed distracted and quickly turned in at main entrance to the barracks. The door guards looked blankly ahead and said nothing… probably thinking their commander had again left the building by the back door, but knowing better than to question him.

Mariala appeared next to Toran as he rounded the corner to the short street that led to the inn, and they exchanged looks of relief. That had been close! Back in their chambers, Toran related all he had learned from both Erol and his own reconnaissance, and the debates began as to how to proceed.

Arguments flowed back and forth, various schemes to sow confusion during the upcoming games competing with suggestions of nighttime raids and kidnappings. It seemed unlikely that any of the T’ara Kul would be able to dispel whatever arcane energies powered the collar – if it was a ritual of the Chained God it would certainly be immune to their power, and if it was magic it was likely to be of a level beyond their own.

It seemed equally unlikely that any persuasion they could bring to bear would suffice to make Deputy Grandmaster Tramano to give up the secret of the collar and its control device.

“So to the Void with persuasion then!” Devrik finally interjected, as the arguments went on endlessly. “Let’s take this Tramano by force, relieve him of this control bracelet, and of his life if he objects too strenuously.”

“But it might not be that simple,” Vulk objected. “Having the control device might make Erol safe from being actively subdued, but it doesn’t mean he could leave the bounds that have been set… are they fixed to these specific buildings, or to a set radius from the control bracelet, for example?”

This set off another round of arguments, with Korwin and Toran arguing for trying to make common cause with the Gyantari prisoner, who could wreck terrible confusion if released during the Games. Devrik and Vulk were dubious of the rational nature of a giant, and leaned toward acting that very night to raid the barracks, while Jeb continually reminded everyone that the most important and VERY FIRST THING needed to be getting Erol free.

Eventually a compromise plan was reached, and as evening settled over Bremkin they moved to carry it out..

Devrik and Toran followed Captain Geffen when he left the barracks building shortly after the evening meal. They stalked him through the dark streets, hoping to find just the right spot to accost and subdue him, but before they could he turned in at what was obviously a brothel.

Following him in after a few minutes, they were just in time to see him disappear into a room on the second floor. Devrik quickly made arrangements with the management for the use of a room for himself “and my little buddy,” which raised some eyebrows but garnered no comments. Silver was silver, after all, and what two consenting fighting men did in their spare time was no one’s business but their own!

They settled themselves in to a room down the hall from the disporting guard captain, to give him and his companion time to get down to business.

“I suspect it’s much easier to surprise a man when he’s buck naked and fucking,” Devrik said with a chuckle. Toran grinned agreement. After half a turn of the glass they figured it was time to move, and the ninja dwarf led the way down the dimly lit hallway to the appropriate door… he slowly lifted the latch, then threw the door open as Devrik leapt past him –

And almost onto the gladius of the the fully clothed and armored Korönian knight!

His own battle-honed reflexes saved him, however – Devrik dodged aside as the blade hissed past his shoulder. The furious guard captain drew back for another blow.

“Did you think I didn’t see you, skulking along in the shadows–” he started to say, then seemed taken aback to see Toran moving up behind Devrik.

“But you didn’t see me,” the Khundari Shadow Warrior said grimly, and hefted his battle axe.

That momentary distraction was all it took – Devrik easily countered the Korönian’s attack with a swift attack of his own, slamming the flat of his battlesword against the side of the taller man’s head.

Geffen fell like a marionette with it’s strings cut.

As Devrik checked to make sure their target was both unconscious and still alive, Toran looked around the room for Geffen’s would-be companion for the night (or the hour, whichever), but there was no one to be seen. He checked under the bed, to be sure.

“He must’ve sent the whore away,” Devrik shrugged when Toran pointed out the lack of this complication. “He knew we – or at least I – were coming, and he probably didn’t want anyone else underfoot in a fight. Gods know I wouldn’t either!”

“Certainly works out well for us,” Toran grinned, slipping his axe into its sheath on his back and helping his friend lift the stunned man from the floor, draping an arm artfully across his shoulder. “Saves us having to keep another person quiet until this is all over.”

The two had little trouble in exiting the brothel with their “drunken” friend, and even less trouble dragging him through the mostly empty streets of the town. They took him into the inn by the back door and up the rear stairs, avoiding the common room and any inconvenient questions from the landlord.

By the time they had him securely bond to the bed in Jeb’s third floor chamber, the man was just beginning to come around. His blurred and obviously concussed state made getting answers out of him easier than it might otherwise have been. But after blurting out the password for the day, he suddenly seemed to come fully to himself, and merely sneered at their further attempts at coercion and persuasion.

When they had got all the information they seemed likely to, Toran stepped out of the room and activated his amulet – there seemed no point in letting Geffen know what sort of resources they had. Mariala handed him the captains keys, which were the most important reason for seizing the man, and he set out to penetrate the enemy lines…

The first thing the Shadow Warrior did, once past the main entrance guards, was head to the back door to let in his companions. Between Mariala’s Wallflower spell, and Korwin’s Klodia’s Shadow Body they were effectively invisible, but it still required a nerve wracking minute of engaging and distracting the lone guard.

“There’s been rumor of an attempt to free the slaves,” the false captain explained to his guard as he unlocked and opened the door. “Take a quick look up and down the street.”

The man looked slightly nonplussed, but obeyed his commander without question. As he stood in the narrow street, peering back and forth, trying to pierce the shadows, the rest of the Hand slipped silently past him and into the barracks.

When the man returned to report that there was nothing to be seen, “Captain Geffen” was unlocking the bronze gate to the gladiator-slave’s quarters. He paused in the hall with the gate wide opened and told the man he planned to make a circuit of the area, just to be sure.

“Stay frosty,” he said as he finally closed the gate behind himself and moved up the dimly lit corridor towards Erol’s room. The sentry saluted and returned to his post, with only occasional puzzled glances up the passageway toward his retreating commander.

At Erol’s door, Toran made a great show of checking on the star prisoner, for the benefit of the not-distant-enough sentry, allowing the others to slip past him and into the room. He closed but did not lock the door behind himself, and set out for the service chamber beneath the arena.

The place was empty at this late hour, except for the prisoners, the panthers and the ferocious-looking giant, so he had free reign to set the Hand’s plan in motion. His first task was to convince the Gyantari of his trustworthiness, which seemed impossible as long as he looked like one of the men who had captured and tortured him… he hated to take off the disguise, because Gheas alone knew how many charges were left in the amulet, but he had to take the risk. Besides the giant, it would be easier to enlist the prisoners, too, if he didn’t look like he was trying to entrap them…

As soon as the Gyantari saw the image of his tormenter shimmer and vanish, revealing a small, dark Khundari, his wariness vanished in sudden delight. His whole face lit up, and he suddenly didn’t look ferocious at all. He looked like a youth – a very large youth, to be sure, but still a youth.

As it turned out, his name was Ergaboreth of G’tall, and he was just 20 years old. Growing up in a remote and isolated community in the southeastern Blackmist Mountains, nestled in a hidden valley on the slopes of Mount Katha, he was captured by a squad of “monster” hunters from the Order of the Iron Fist of Tarutha over a month ago. He had been beaten, starved and tormented ever since in an effort to make him more “fierce” for the Games in Izmirk.

Then, about a ten-day ago, he had been loaded into a cramped wagon of iron and oak, draped in canvas, and jostled along bad roads until they arrived here. At first he had been kept in a cage in the place where they kept the animals, but this very morning he had been moved here.

As they talked, it became obvious to Toran that the Gyantari youth was a gentle soul by nature.

Unlike most of his kin, he was curious about the outside world and the legends he’d grown up on about the “small folk.” Despite warnings that they could be trecherous and cruel, he preferred to believe the legends of old alliances, mighty wars fought side-by-side with the Umantari and Khundari and even the magical Telnori, and grand adventures shared by heroes and giants fighting demons and monsters of the ancient world.

His faith has been shaken, a bit, by recent events.

He explained that he had been dressed in his current bear skin loin cloth, and forced to practice with a great spiked club, to perpetuate the myth of the crude, primitive and savage Giant that the little people seemed to have. He listened carefully as Toran outlined what he wanted of the young giant, and then sighed.

“I had resigned myself to never seeing my home again,” he said sadly. “And I don’t think my chances will be much improved by your plan… but better to die fighting for myself, and not for the entertainment of these nasty little creatures.” He peered down at Toran uncertainly. “No offense.”

“None taken,” the Khundari assured him, with a grim smile. “I’m not fond of these particular “creatures” myself. But not all Umantari are like them, and I assure you we’ll do all we can to see you escape, Ergaboreth…” he trailed off, realizing he might be making promises he couldn’t be sure of keeping.

The young giant smiled ruefully himself, seeming to be thinking along similar lines.

“My friends call me Erg,” he said, putting his hand through the bars. Toran hesitated only a second, then extended his own hand. It, and most of his forearm, was engulfed in the massive grip, but the giant didn’t squeeze too tightly, and released him quickly.

“I’ll help you with your plan, if you’ll make me one promise – it’s one that you should be able to keep, assuming you yourselves survive – take word of my fate back to my kin at G’tall. Tell them I regret nothing, even though it seems their warnings were prophetic.”

Toran solemnly agreed to this condition, but assured Erg that there was a good chance… well, a chance… a possibility, anyway… that he could tell his kin this tale himself.

After freeing the giant, Toran released the prisoners, explaining what he wanted in exchange. Unfortunately, most of them saw no percentage in acting as ballista fodder when they could instead just nip off into the night… he did manage to convince a handful of them to stay at least long enough to operate the floor lift, lowering it enough to give Erg an opening to pull himself up to the floor of the arena.

“And release the panthers, as well,” the giant suggested as most of the prisoners scampered off into the night. “I’ve made friends with them these past ten-days, and I think they, at least, will fight beside me.”

With the situation in the arena prepared, Toran headed back to the barracks building to set the next step of the plan in motion. Rather than use the underground passage, he dashed across the street, yelling for the two men on sentry duty at the front door to “keep the damn giant contained” until the rest of the men could be summoned. Their confusion was suddenly mitigated by the sound of a great bellow coming from within the arena, but Toran gave them no time for questions, barreling past them with vague shouts of “assembling the troops.”

Dashing up the stairs to the gym cum soldier’s barracks, he burst in and gave the sleeping men no more chance to think than he had the guards. In minutes he had them up and armed, heading down the stairs under the confused command of “his” chief lieutenant.

“I shall follow anon, after I inform the Deputy Grandmaster what has transpired,” he cried after their retreating backs. The lieutenant threw a look back at him as if he wanted to mention the fact that he hadn’t really told them what had transpired, exactly, but discipline and training prevailed.

As the sound of the twenty or so men storming across the street faded Toran made his own way down the stairs and turned right, jogging quickly to Erol’s cell. There he released his companions, and they all proceeded to the other set of stairs that lead up to the administrative section of the building.

Although the building was relatively sound-proof, it was a warm night and several windows on the second floor had been left open, which meant Gordek and his two bodyguards were probably already aware that something was up. As Toran, still disguised as the guard captain, reached the head of the stairs one of the bodyguards was peering out the window at the soldiers pouring into the arena.

“What in the Void is going on–” he started, as he recognized his despised colleague. But Toran had his axe out and was swinging a mighty blow at the man’s legs, his disguise rippling away like smoke around him.

Despite the double surprise of being attacked by a supposed co-religionist and seeing that same man suddenly morph into a snarling Khundari, the bodyguard’s reflexes were amazing. He leaped over the scything blade, drawing his own weapon, and landing in battle stance, all in a single flowing move.

His eyes widened slightly as he saw the number of fighting men… and was that a woman?!… coming up the stairs behind this crazy Khundari, but it didn’t slow his counter attack nor silence the bellow of enraged warning he got out.

Toran blocked a flurry of sudden blows with a grunt, then drove forward with another attack, pushing the taller man back toward the office door. This gave Devrik, behind him on the stairs, a chance to swing past him as the second guard, who must have been posted outside the Deputy Grandmaster’s bedroom door, suddenly skidded around the corner. Mace drawn, he snarled in rage at the scene before him and prepared to charge into the fray.

While his right hand held his battlesword leveled at theToran’s opponent, Devrik gestured with his left hand. A spark flew from it toward the running man, growing in size and intensity until it struck his chest. The warrior was suddenly engulfed in a ball of searing flame, and he came to stop as if he’d been pole-axed. As the flames dissipated he collapsed to the floor in a clatter of metal, clothes and exposed skin blackened and smoking. He still breathed, but he was most certainly out of the fight.

The first bodyguard, still engaged in a furious barrage of stroke and counterstroke with Toran, paid no attention but instead redoubled his attack on the Dwarf. Toran was forced to give way, but this only opened up a space for Devrik to pivot and bring his own battlesword fully into play.

Erol, coming up the stairs next, with Vulk on his heels, decided to try and push past the melee and into the office, in the hopes of coming at his nemesis from behind. But the effort led him to shove against the bodyguard, and whatever arcane rules governed his collar decided this was an attack. He was down and writhing on the floor in an instant, the all-to-familiar searing white pain flooding his mind and body.

Meanwhile, Vulk and Mariala slipped passed the struggle at the end of the hall and made their way around the corner, heading for Gordek’s bed chamber. In passing Mariala had cast Fire Nerves on the Taurthani bodyguard, which didn’t take him out, but clearly staggered him. Korwin summoned his Frost Blade and leapt into the fray with Toran and Devrik.

Mariala and Vulk were around the corner and not halfway down the short corridor when the door at the far end was flung open. Gordek himself, obviously hastily dressed, stood glaring out at whatever demon-cursed goings on were disturbing his sleep.

His eyes widened slightly as he instantly took in the smoking form of his bodyguard, the sounds of steel-on-steel from around the corner, and the two people advancing on him, the man with weapon drawn and the woman raising her hands and gesturing sharply. The man called out in an urgent, commanding voice.

“We mean you you no harm! We are merely here to talk…”

For the space of a heartbeat Gordek almost believed that, before the reality of the situation reasserted itself. But the delay was long enough for the woman to finish her gesture…

He felt the tingling sensation and sudden clenching of his muscles that indicated he’d been hit my some sort of fire- or nerve-based spell, even as he jumped back and slammed the heavy door shut.

He gave a moment’s thanks for the holy amulet that had blunted the attack, as he twisted the heavy iron lock into place and retreated further into the room. He paused, gathering his wits and weighing his options.

Retreat through the office was obviously out, he thought as he turned the lighter lock on that door as well. Fine. Retreat wasn’t really in his nature any way. Whoever these fools were, they would soon learn what it meant to cross a servant of the Fire God…

The fight at the head of the stairs had come to an end, with the first bodyguard finally going down beneath the deadly blows of Devrik and Toran and despite the ineffectual blows of Korwin. Staggered by Mariala’s energy-draining blast, the man had eventually dropped his weapon, and though he made a valiant effort to recover it, in the end three opponents were just too much for him.

Barely.

Erol staggered to his feet as the man slumped down in a spray of blood, and tried the office door… locked!

“Toran,” he callled urgently, “can you get this blasted thing open?”

As the Khundari knelt and worked at the heavy lock with his picking tools, Mariala was similarly crouched before the bed chamber door. But she had the Captain Geffen’s keys, which Toran had earlier passed to her, and was trying them one by one as fast as she could.

Not fast enough for Devrik, however. Dashing around the corner as soon as the second bodyguard had gone down, he rushed at the door and threw all his solid, muscular weight into a powerful shoulder ram against the door.

He bounced off like… um, like something really soft thrown against something really hard.

Mariala resumed her deft inserting and turning of keys, and soon uttered a cry of triumph as Devrik rubbed his shoulder and hefted his sword. He nodded to his friend and she turned the handle, pushing the door quickly open and standing to one side.

But before Devrik could charge into the room a blast of fire erupted from the doorway. It struck the fighter in the stomach, though he tried to block with his sword arm, and he was blown backwards, engulfed as the bodyguard before had been in a ball of flame. He crumpled to the floor, singed, smoking and unconcious.

Mariala had thrown up her own left arm to shield herself from the blast, which had saved her face. But left her shoulder, arm and hand blackened as she, too, swooned. Her last sight before the darkness took her was of a shocked and enraged Vulk charging past her and through the doorway…

Vulk had indeed been shocked at the sudden reversal of their fortunes and the felling of his friends – they did this to other people, not the other way around! Although he had cast his holy armor upon himself, he was unsure it would be of much use against a fireball; but his anger was such that he gave it barely a passing thought as he dashed through the doorway, sword before him and ready to kill.

His first blow was deftly blocked by Gordek’s dagger, and the man went into a fighters crouch. He might be an administrator, but you don’t rise in the ranks of the Chained God without learning to fight, and fight dirty. His blade slashed at Vulk’s belly, barely missing.

At that moment the other door in the room, the one leading to the office, burst suddenly inward as Erol barreled through it, a feral snarl twisting his face as he took in the scene before him. In that moment, Gordek Tramano made a mistake – he reached for the control bracelet at his wrist instead of focusing on the man with the sword in front of him.

Before his fingers could touch the smooth metal, Vulk’s longsword flashed out and in a sweeping arc severed the cleric’s right hand above the wrist. Hand, dagger, and bracelet went flying in a spray of arterial blood as the Taruthani cantor’s mouth and eyes twisted into circles of shock and disbelief.

Falling to his knees, the stunned man clutched at the stump with his remaining hand, attempting to staunch the spurting blood. Even as he paled from blood loss Vulk stepped up and rapped him sharply on the side of the head with the pommel of his sword. He slumped down, unconscious, and Vulk laid his weapon aside to apply a tourniquet to the mutilated arm.

“We don’t want him dead just yet,” he explained at Erol’s surprised look. “Not until he tells us how to get you out of that collar. And I’ve got to check on the others, he burned them pretty badly!”

Erol was jolted out of his satisfied contemplation of his fallen enemy at the news that his friends had been hurt. Grabbing the Deputy Grandmaster by the collar of his robe, he dragged the man out of the room in Vulk’s wake.

Devrik and Mariala had both suffered serious burns in the fireball attack, and both had patches of exposed skin that were blackened and weeping. Vulk prayed and performed the laying on hands, sending both his own psionic healing ability and the blessings of the goddess into his friends. The weeping stopped, and the heat seemed to dissipate from the damaged flesh, but it was obvious there would be scars and a long healing period… if infection didn’t set in and kill them in days!

Then he remembered the set of vials he had carried around for months now, the gift from their friend and former companion Drake – the new Baylorium! It worked best when mixed with an individual’s blood, true, but even in its raw state the stuff seemed capable of miracles.

Vulk pulled four vials from the satchel at his waist, setting two of them aside. He pricked a finger on each of his injured friends in turn, allowing a drop of blood to fall into each of the other vials. These he shook vigorously and put back in their slots in the bag, after etching a unique symbol on each.

Then he took up the remaining vials and began spreading the viscous ointment over the burned skin of his companions, starting with the more seriously injured Devrik. By the time he started massaging the medicine into Mariala’s injured hand and arm Devrik was beginning to wake up and the blackened patches of skin were falling away to reveal pink new skin.

In less than ten minutes both Devrik and Mariala were on their feet and looking in amazement at their healing flesh. There was still some pain, and the new flesh was extremely sensitive, but since much of their clothes were burned away around those areas it was bearable. And it was not like they had a choice, given the situation.

“Tomorrow the other vials should be fully activated and I can re-treat the wounds,” Vulk told them, as he made a final examination of his work. “That should heal you up completely… I don’t think there will even be scars, although there might be if we just used the raw version… still, this shit is amazing!”

While Vulk ahd been tending to their fallen comrades Erol, Toran and Korwin had been questioning the revived and sullen Gordek Tramano, to little gain. Pale from blood loss, he remained tight-lipped, except to taunt his former captive.

“You’ll never leave here alive,” he hissed again as the rest of the Hand joined the circle around him. “I will never release that collar, and unless I do you are trapped within the bounds I – that are set for you. I would advise your friends to leave now, while they can.”

Everyone ignored this suggestion as unworthy even of comment, and began another round of quick-fire questions. Vulk and Mariala both quietly activated their respective abilities to sense truth, although it took some effort of concentration on Mariala’s part to work past the lingering pain of her burns.

In this way they were able to determine that, while Gordek spoke the truth that he would not be moved to release the collar and that it would take a ritual of Korön to do it, he lied about Erol’s ability to leave the barracks and arena.

“I can’t be sure,” Mariala said coldly, eyeing the man who had burned her. “But I get the impression…. yes, I think the area of effect is tied to that bracelet, not to wards on these specific buildings.”

If he had been healthy and not shock-stunned from blood loss, Gordek would no doubt have had better control of his face. Even as it was, he betrayed himself only by the slightest twitch of his expression. But that was enough to convince Mariala of the truth of her guess. She assured Erol that as long as he kept the bracelet near him, he could leave the area safely.

“Then I guess we don’t need this Void-spawned bastard anymore,” Devrik said, whipping out his dagger and grabbing the kneeling man by the hair. “I’d give you the honors, Erol, but I don’t think you could do it without activating that damn collar. And besides, he owes me for these burns…”

“Wait!” Gordek cried out. “You can’t kill me! If you do, his collar will activate permanently – it’s tied to me personally! If I die he dies – slowly and painfully!”

“He’s lying,” Vulk and Mariala said simultaneously.

Devrik cut the cantor’s throat.

As Deputy Grandmaster Gordek Tramano spasmed and bled out his life into the floor boards the Hand moved quickly to search the office and bedroom. The sounds of fighting coming in through the windows had faded to an ominous silence, and they knew they were out of time.

Erol found his armor and weapons in the large cabinet in the office, along with several other miscellaneous bits of armor that looked very well-crafted. He took it all. Devrik tucked the dead cleric’s ornate dagger into his own belt, while the others gathered anything that looked promising in the way of money, items or papers.

As the group headed down the stairs to the main entrance a quiet argument ensued concerning their next move. Toran and Erol were all for finding and aiding the young Gyantari and taking him with them. Devrik and Vulk were all for getting the Void out of town and to the Nitarin gate as quickly as possible. Mariala and Korwin were focused on preparing spells of concealment – and Devrik pointed out that the giant’s head would be out of range of her spell. Unless Mariala rode on someone’s shoulders…

Before they stepped out of the door, Mariala summoned her remaining reserves of energy and cast her Wallflower spell over the group, while Korwin cast Klordia’s Shadow Body on himself. Now they could move unseen through the night-time streets, as long as they did nothing to draw overt attention to themselves. While every nerve screamed for them to run, they instead set off at measured, steady walk, skirting the south side of the now-quiet arena.

Battered and bloody Taruthani fighters were staggering out of the arena and heading back to the barracks, many carrying more seriously wounded comrades between them. From the fragments of conversation the Hand were able to pick up, it seemed the young giant had made a very good show of himself and had managed to escape from the arena, along with two of the panthers.

This news ended the argument about helping their erstwhile ally, for although it seemed unlikely he could long evade his captors in this settled country, he was gone beyond their help at this point. They continued quietly on their way out of town to the rendezvous point they’d set up to meet Jeb and Cris, who had left the guard captain tied up in Jeb’s attic room.

“I’d not want to be in his shoes when his Order learns of tonights events,” Toran commented sotto voce after the two sidekicks had given their report. “It might have been better to kill him – I’m uncomfortable leaving living enemies behind me…”

It was too late now to do anything about it, however, and the group set off into the pre-dawn darkness of the countryside. With luck they could make the Gate by the time the sun was kissing the horizon…

 

Erol set out from Lothkir on his scouting mission to Dor Bremkin the same day his companions planned to leave for Virzon, setting out in the cool hour before dawn. He and Jeb rode Chancellory horses, which they would be able to ride hard and trade of for fresh horses at Royal Posts within Arushal. Grover rode on his usual perch on Erol’s left shoulder, occasionally scampering down and leaping across to ride the rump of Jeb’s horse. But as the ride wore on, he eventually settled down to sleep in an open saddle bag.

They made almost 40 kilometers that first day, arriving at the Abbey of Revelsa in the early evening, just in time to take supper with the monks. They set out at dawn again the next day, and made it to the last Post Station at the border by mid-afternoon.

Trading in their winded horses for one last set of fresh ones, despite the misgivings of the post commander at letting his steeds leave the kingdom, they made the last ten kilometers to Dor Urdol before sunset. They took rooms at an inn on the outskirts of the small town, keeping a low profile without seeming to skulk.

Sitting in the common room, eating his dinner of stewed mutton, Bianguen cheese, plums, pickled eel and several mugs of a decent rye ale flavored with heather, Erol found himself slightly disoriented to be back in his once-beloved Republic… still beloved?

His years away had changed him, toughened him, certainly made him more cynical… he had none of the illusions of the young man who had enlisted in the Legions to avenge the wrongs done his country. And yet he found he did still care what happened to the Republic, even if it was no longer really his home…

A third full day of riding, taking it a bit easier since there would be no trading off of horses again, brought them to the Darikazi border. Much of the countryside they rode through was strangely empty and quite – a generation of war, suppression and heavy exactions of the conquered populace had left much of this once-fertile region to fall back into semi-wilderness.

And it was no better crossing into Darikaz – the hand of the Korönian fighting order that had seized Bremkin from the Republic lay heavy on the people they now ruled. Actually, Erol knew that the current overlords were a splinter order, who had broken from the original conquerers some years ago… but they seemed no better, if the sullen, beaten-down looks he saw on the few peasants they passed along the road were any indication.

The keep of Bremkin was just 10 kilometers from the border, but the sun had set by the time the weary and saddle-sore travelers rode into the town that surrounded it. Neither man was an experienced horseman, and it was with groans of relief that they stopped at the first inn that looked half-way reputable. Erol took a private room, while Jeb slept in the loft in the stables, where he could keep an eye on the horses.

The next day, still stiff and sore, Erol began circulating through the town, stopping at the local market, enjoying a leisurely drink at various taverns, chatting up the workers at smithy, ostler and mill. Bremkin was not especially large, with a permanent population of perhaps 300, but the business of the Order of the Fist of Shangtor, and its sponsoring Order of the Burning Blood, came close to doubling that during the fighting season.

And while the natives were clearly oppressed and resentlful, there was something in the air… a feeling of hopeful anticipation, Erol decided after a few hours of carefully subtle probing. But the conditioning of many years kept most folk from being too open about what they might be thinking, or hoping, especially with a stranger.

When they compared notes over supper that evening, Jeb had discovered much the same thing in his time with the stable hands, servants and farm folk of the area. “It’s like they’re awaiting on something, m’lord,” he summarized after a long pull on his ale. “But they’re too canny… or scared… to say what it is, exactly.”

That night in the common room, talk danced around the mysterious subject,and while alcohol loosed some toungues, it wasn’t enough. But Erol knew better than to push, and contented himself with making some new friends. Eventually he’d get what he wanted…

♦ ♦ ♦

The next afternoon, in a tavern on the edge of town frequented by farmers in from the hinterland for the market, Erol’s patience paid off. A yeoman from a nearby manor, for whom he’d stood several rounds of drinks the night before, happened to be taking his lunch there when Erol arrived. He was pleased to see his generous friend from the night before, whom he believed to be an unemployed mercenary seeking work, and motioned Erol to join him.

Several ales later, he leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, and a bit hazily, into Erol’s ear. “You’d do well to hold off hiring on with any of these Fist bas’rds, my mercenary friend,” he confided. “There’s big ch’nges comin’, I know from my bru’ther, he’s a guard up’t the Keep… yep, big ch’nges… wit the King a deader, they’s giving the town back to the Republic!”

He sat back and gave Erol a broad wink. “What’da’ya thin’ of that, eh! The good ole days are coming back… an then you can hire on as a prop’r Legioneer… legionhair… you know, with the Legions…”

Further questions managed to get little more out of the tipsy yeoman, aside from the repeated assertion that it would happen “soon… verra soon!” It was what King Dorikon and his advisors had feared, but Erol wanted more confirmation before he sent word. He continued his rounds, and knowing enough now to ask the right leading questions, by the time he met up with Jeb for supper he had confirmed the story with three other sources. Jeb hadn’t gotten quite as precise information, but what he had gleaned pieced together well with Erol’s information.

“It’s solid enough,” Erol said, eating the last of the pickled beets. “I wish we had more than just ‘soon,’ but it will have to do… I’ll send Mariala a message tonight.”

Jeb gave a little shiver of combined fear and fascination… he was still a bit leery of the arcane forces that his employer was involved with, but felt drawn to them at the same time. Certainly Mariala’s parchment was the one magic he was most familiar with, and though he hadn’t ever actually used it himself, he’d seen Erol or the others use it often enough. It still gave him a thrill, he had to admit…

As Jeb was contemplating the exciting dangers of magic, and the odd direction his life had taken since the Gülvini had attacked his home last year, Erol’s eye was drawn across the room to a dark-haired woman seated alone near the fireplace, a cup of wine on the table before her. She had large, dark eyes and very red lips – which parted as she brought the wine to her mouth. She took a slow sip, and then those eyes looked up and locked with Erol’s.

She was dressed in dark green traveling clothes, a matching cloak draped on the bench beside her, and she looked quite fit. And healthy lungs if I’m any judge, Erol thought as he was distracted by the movement of her bossom. Not enormous, which he had never found particularly interesting, but a pleasant handful nonetheless…

She arched an eye at him suddenly, and he flushed a bit as he realized he’d been straing. But she smiled, and motioned ever so slightly with her head, her eyes glancing down to the empty spot beside her… a clear invitation if he’d ever seen one!

“Jeb, why don’t you retire for the night,” Erol said as he rose to his feet. “we may want to get an early start tomorrow…”

“But it’s barely past sundown,” the youth objected. “And I’ve only had the one ale! I was thinking –”

“Yes, yes,” Erol replied absently, moving away from their table. “Just as you please…”

At this point Jeb noticed the object of his master’s attention, and he snorted a laugh. Wasn’t that just the way of the world? The finest looking woman in the place, and of course she’d only have eyes for a hardened fighter… a poor farm boy wouldn’t even rate a glance, however good he might be with a bow. Or any other tool.

With a sigh and a wry grin he raised his empty mug at the serving wench, as Erol sank down next to his new friend. She leaned in towards him, then laughed merrily at something he said. She had a beautiful laugh, Jeb thought…

♦ ♦ ♦

Later that night, in Jerila’s room (a beautiful name for a beautiful creature, Erol thought as he brushed a lock of hair from her face), they lay entwined in the blankets and each other. She smiled at him and pulled away slightly.

“Now perhaps we can enjoy some of that expensive Valtirian wine I ordered,” she suggested. She had seemed a bit annoyed earlier, when his passion had overwhelmed any interest in more drinking, but that had faded quickly enough, Erol fancied rather smugly, in he heat of the moment. Her passion had certainly seemed to match his own! Still, no sense in risking that annoyance anew – and he was feeling a bit dehydrated just now in any case.

She stood up, letting the sheet fall away, and he was taken again by the supple curves of her athletic form. She seemed unconcerned by her nudity, and gave him a coy smile over her shoulder as she poured the wine. Turning, she returned to the bed, sinking down beside him and handing him one of the goblets of deep red wine. They both drank deep. It was indeed a very fine vintage, Erol thought, for the little he knew of such things.

“You know, I believe we have an acquaintance in common,” Jerila said after a moment, setting her goblet down on the floor next to the bed and standing back up even as Erol reached out to stroke her arm. He looked puzzled, and rose up to a sitting position. As he did so he felt a sudden wave of dizziness spin his head around.

He shook his head and the dizziness passed. “An acquaintance? Who? And how –”

“Can’t you guess? It’s been awhile since you last saw him, I understand, but I doubt you’ve forgotten him. He certainly hasn’t forgotten you!” She stepped further away, moving behind the table. Erol frowned and stood up – or tried to. But the dizziness returned even stronger than before, and he staggered to his knees on floor, spilling his wine and knocking over Jerila’s goblet as well.

“Who… what… what have you.. done..?” He looked up blearily at her smiling face, which suddenly seemed to be moving in several directions at once.

“He is quite wroth you, my dear – you betrayed his trust, he says. But to be truthful, given the fury in his eye when he speaks of you, I wonder if there isn’t a bit more to it than that… oh well, I suppose I’ll never know for sure, as my work here is done now.”

With that she began to don her clothes, much more speedily and much less seductivley than she’d slipped out of them an our ago.

As the world went suddenly dark Erol had time for just one last thought.

“Oh shit!”

♦ ♦ ♦

Erol came very slowly back to consciousness. His head felt as if packed with ten thousand worms squirming all over themselves, and his vision, when he finally pulled his eyes open, was doubled. Sound seemed muffled, except for the thud of his own heart beat.

Slowly he became aware of his body, from which he felt strangely disconneted. He appeared to be seated… he was aware of his arms resting on the arms of a chair… he elt his back pressed against wooden slats… yes, he was seated, but not restrained…

His vision began to clear, and he began to make out his surroundings. He appeared to be in a large, well appointed chamber… stone walls… window to his right, and one straight ahead… he blinked in the bright sunlight… southern exposure…

He was seated before a large, ornate table cum desk of dark wood, its top cluttered with papers, ink bottles, pens and other instruments he couldn’t currently make out. And behind the desk, staring back at him, was the last person on Novendo he wanted to see.

Gordek Tramano, Deputy Grandmaster of the Izmirk chapter of the Korönian clerical Order of the Seven Pillars, master of the Taruthani Games in the Darikazi capital… and the slave master from whom Erol had escaped less than two years ago.

“So, you’re finally coming around,” Gordek said, his tone conversational. “I’m afraid we went a little heavy on the soporific, but then I know your stamina and resilience of old – I didn’t want to take any chances on your escaping my little honey pot.”

Erol said nothing, but closely eyed his captor. The Korönian cleric was little changed from when he’d last seen him – wearing the dark red robes of his office, trimmed with deep yellow, slender and trim, of medium height, with sandy brown hair, lightly dusted with gray at the temples, and strangely soulful brown eyes for such a hardened man in such a brutal position. He stared back at Erol with no apparent emotion… which was not at all like the last time they’d been this close.

Erol felt the sensation of time slowing to a snails pace that was so familiar to him in battle, and it seemed to speed the clearing of his head. As Gordek continued to stare at him cooly, Erol’s situational awareness told him that they were alone in the room. He sensed no quards, not servants –

With a speed that belied his apparent doped condition, Erol leapt from his chair, aiming to get across the desk and his hands around the cantor’s neck before the older man could react –

Gordek reacted not at all… but Erol suddenly found himself on the floor, writhing in a white-hot pain that seemed to come from every nerve in his body. Even as his mind started to white out, he had the random thought that it was much like Mariala’s  Fire Nerves, which he’d once had the misfortune to experience, but even more intense…

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when he opened his again the room and light looked unchanged, and as he dragged himself to his feet he saw Gordek seated just as he had been – although he now sported a slight smile. The pain was gone as if it had never happened.

“Well, I’m glad we got that out of the way quickly,” Gordek said, motioning Erol to resume his seat. “The collar you’re wearing around that muscular neck of yours is quite special, you know.”

Erol’s hand went to his neck… yes, there was band, as wide as two fingers, of very smooth metal… steel?… loosely bound around his neck. He could just squeeze a finger between it and his flesh.

“Very expensive, and we only have a handful, but well worth it when it comes to controlling recalcitrant slaves who forget their place,” the cleric explained in that same tone, as if they were discussing the weather. “If you try to attack any consecrated servant of the Chained God, you will suffer as you just did… and if you try to leave the bounds I have set for that collar, you will suffer even more incapacitating agony.”

“Gordek,” Erol began. “I–”

“SILENCE!” Gordek roared suddenly, surging to his feet, his face a mask of rage and all pretense of pleasantry gone. “You will address me as Master, you lying, deceitful, treacherous dog!”

Erol was no more moved by the cantor’s sudden anger than he had been by his seeming calmness. He knew this man, knew his feelings… could he still play off them? He forced himself to lean back in his chair and give the slave master a slight, rueful smile.

“You were… fond of me… once,” he began. “And I was not–”

“No!” Gordek hissed, regaining control of his features. He came around the desk to stand in front of Erol. “You will not speak honeyed words to me again, you faithless ingrate!

“Fond of you? Yes, I did perhaps let a foolish weakness blind me to your true nature… I could have taken you as I have many another slave, but I offered you more. And you wasted no time in exploiting my lapse, didn’t you? Betraying my… trust… and absconding with yourself.”

He raised his hand to stop Erol when he tried to speak. “You will not speak unless I ask you a question, slave. And I will –”

“Gordek, if you ever had –” Erol was cut off abruptly as the searing white agony caused his body to spasm in the chair. This time when he regained his senses he found Gordek leaning hipshot against the desk, watching him. Again, there was no residue of pain, only the memory that it had happened.

His stoic expression never changing, Erol smiled inwardly… it had been worth the pain to goad his enraged nemesis, for the man had moved his right hand to touch a shiny silver band around his left wrist just before the pain had hit. A control device, no doubt…

“So, let us be clear where we stand,” Gordek said, calm once again. “You are again the property of the Oder of the Seven Pillars, and you will again bring money into our coffers. Perhaps.” Now he smiled a thin smile and moved back to his chair behind the desk.

“You see, there is a big celebration coming soon – the Order of the Burning Blood has finally decided to turn this shit hole of a town over to the Republic once again. And in honor of this historic moment they wish to put on a spectacle for the populace – hence my presence in this backwater, to oversee the Games.

“And I have promised them something… big.” Now his smile became a grin. “Big indeed! And with the God smiling on me, I now have a way to make my surprise even better – you!

“Treacherous, lying cur you may be, but there is no doubt you are one of the best gladiatorial fighters I have ever seen… and live or die, in five days time, you will give these bumpkins – and the representatives of the Republic, of course – a show they’ll never forget!”

With that he lifted a bell from his desk and rang it three times. A door behind Erol opened and two Seven Pillar guards strode into the room. As they dragged Erol from the chair, he had to resist the instinct to resist – he definitely didn’t want to invoke the pain again. Not without good reason, that might forward his chance of escape…

As they hauled him from the long room he caught a glimpse of his armor, weapons and saddle bags, piled near a large cabinet against the wall opposite the windows. He wondered with a deep mental sigh if that was the last he’d ever see of them…

♦ ♦ ♦

Meanwhile, Jeb was frantically trying to decide what to do.

He had awakened in the night to the sound of tramping feet and the clink of armor and wepaons. Peering down from his nest in the stable loft, he had seen four large men, obviously soldiers of one of the Korönian fighting orders, although he had no idea which one, carrying off the limp form of his master. Two more followed behind, carry Ser Erol’s possessions, and a seventh man, unarmored but who seemed to be in command.

The leader paused in the circle of light cast by the single torch near the inn’s back door, turning to speak to a figure in a dark green traveling cloak that had stepped out behind him. The woman Erol had gone off with! The leader handed her a pouch that jingled musically with the sound of coins, saying something Jeb couldn’t catch. She threw back her head and laughed equally musically, then turned and faded into the night.

Pulling on his boots as quietly as possible, Jeb scurried down the ladder from the loft, careless of waking any of the stable hands and servants asleep there. He followed the soldiers and their prisoner from a discreet distance, which wasn’t hard, given the midnight hour – they were the only people moving through the street, and the torches let him keep them in sight without getting too close. They weren’t going far. After only a few turns along Bremkin’s narrow streets, they came to the central square where the local arena stood. Crossing the plaza under its dark mass, they entered a long, low building on the far side.

Standing there in the dark, after  the last torch had passed through the large ironbound oak doors, Jeb tried desperately to think what his employers would do. His thoughts were interrupted, and his heart nearly stopped, when there came a sound behind him. Hand on his dagger, he whirled around, only to have Grover leap from the shadows and land on his chest, then scamper up to sit on his shoulder.

Once his heart had sowed down, Jeb turned to examine the building across the street, and Grover seemed to be doing the same. It was, as he’d noted before, long and low – two stories, but with no windows. No, wait – there were two windows, on the second floor, at the south end.

Sticking to the shadows, Jeb and Grover moved slowly around the building, viewing it from all sides. There were a total of six windows, all on the second floor, all at the southern end. The only other obvious entrance was a back door onto the narrow street east of the building, near the southern end of the building. A tall inn across that same street would give him a view down on the building… but skulking around in the night seemed a good way to get arrested (or just beaten to death) as a thief.

For the next two days, Jeb, with Grover usually close by, cased what he quickly learned were the gladiatorial barracks of the Order of the Seven Pillars. And tried desperately to think of some way of rescuing Erol.

He did mange to rescue the horses from the inn’s stables – fortunately Erol had paid in advance, so his disappearance was not viewed too seriously. Indeed, Jeb thought the inn keeper seemed rather too surprised to see him show up to claim that his master had moved to another inn and wished him to bring the horses. But the man could hardly object without revealing his complicity in a guest’s kidnapping… and Jeb had made sure their meeting was very public.

Jeb sold one of the horses to the local ostler, allaying the mans suspicions by claiming his master was wroth with him, and had decided he could walk from now on. The man cheated him outrageously, of course (Arushali post horses were good, sturdy horses), but it left him with enough coin to take a room on the third floor of the inn across from the back of the barracks.

From this vantage point he was able to see that there were six large skylights on the northern two-thirds of the roof, and a trap door near the southwestern side. He could also see into the the windows of what looked to be the office and bedroom of the leader of the men who had taken Erol away.

Which is why he was able, on the second day, to see that same man seated at his desk and pawing through Erol’s possessions. And at that moment Jeb knew what he had to do. Grover was a clever little beast, and seemed as agitated by his master’s absence as Jeb was. Jeb had watched many of his training sessions…

It took several hours, but in the end Jeb was pretty sure the ferret understood what he needed. As the anxious youth watched from his window in the inn, Grover made his way up the rough stone wall of the barracks, to the open window of the office. Thank Kasira it was a hot summer day, Jeb thought, as the animal snaked through the opening.

Cantor Tramano, whose name he had learned in the course of his casing, had left his chambers half a turn ago. Given the time of day, Jeb could only hope it was to take his midday meal, and that he would be gone for some time. He stared fixedly at the window, willing the little beast to return quickly…

It seemed like hours, but in fact it took less than a turn for Grover to reappear at the window, something square and white clamped in his mouth. Jeb gasped when he lost his grip halfway down the wall, but the lithe ferret managed to turn the fall into a leap, and landed atop a passing woman. Shrieks and crying ensued, but Grover scampered down the woman’s dress and was gone in a flash.

A few minutes later he reappeared at the door to Jeb’s room, scratching to be let in. When Jeb opened the door, Grover dashed past him, leaped to the small table, and dropped his prize with an air of satisfied accomplishment.

Jeb absently stroked the ferret’s head as he picked up the packet of Mariala’s magic paper, crooning words of praise even as he considered what he had to do next. Fortunately, Mariala and Vulk had been teaching him his letters, and while he still struggled to read, and his handwriting was childish at best, he at least knew enough to get the gist of the problem across.

Reaching for the pen and ink he had purchased that morning, his hearing pounding at the thought of doing magic, Jeb laboriously began to write his message…

God damn, another one not written up… here are my game notes, from which I’ll reconstruct the story…

A few hardy sheep and goatherds maintain lonely outposts on the moors within a few miles of the ruins, but no nearer and always within sight of the rugged track that serves as the only real road across the heathland. The group will approach one of these as they near the site of Nirokilon, to find a grizzled older man, and two younger but equally hard-looking younger men on the porch. They claim to be a sheep herder and his sons, but if the PCs make their Awareness Rolls, they will note subtle clues that this is a lie: it’s mid-day, and sheep can be seen on nearby hillsides, but no one seems to be watching them; all three men have the distinctive calluses on their hands of trained fighters; the “father” seems oddly articulate for a peasant shepard; and if all else fails, the glint of chainmail will be glimpsed beneath the homespun clothes of one of the “sons” (they all seem over-dressed for a warm day).

They are in fact a Fire Knight of the Order of the Iron Claw and two Flame Warriors, left to guard this nearest habitation to the abandoned city. The Korönians murdered the actual shepard and his one son, whose bodies were dumped in a nearby bog (trackers will find the drag marks if they look). Once the Knight percieves that their ruse has been discovered, he will give the command to attack, drawing his own mace from its hiding place on the porch, attacking either Erol or Devrik, whoever is closest. The two younger men will reveal their gladius’ and go for the other one and for Toran.

All Fire Knights have a limited immunity to fire-based magics, including Fire Nerves, via the standard amulets they wear and the brutal training they undergo; the Flame Warriors have only thier own toughness, but that’s enough to keep them on their feet after a blast from Mariala – they lose a turn, and can only block if attacked, but they don’t go down! A second attack causes them to lose two turns (but they can still block), and a third will bring them down. The Knight only loses a single turn, no matter how much he’s Fire Nerved.

If any of the Korönians survive the fight, they won’t be easy to make talk… no amount of physical pain will do it, but maybe the PCs can come up with something psychological…

In any case, they should be able to figure out that the others have gone into the sinking city. They should realize that they would be visible in their approach to any watcher on the Observatory, the tallest remaining structure.

But there is enough cover (stone walls, ruined building, low scrub) to make stealth possible. Trackers should have little trouble following the tracks into the ruins.

The group will have to fight another Knight and two Warriors on the steps to the only entrance to the ruined Observatory; they didn’t post a lookout on the roof due to the sever instability of the eastern half of that level.

Once passed the door guards, the group will have to move stealthily through the ruined building, where three Warriors are scouring the remains, looking for anythign useful to their Order. They will be found in the Library, assuming the PCs don’t make any suspicious nosies as they approach.

The leader of the band, along with the Third Fire Knight and two more Flame Warriors, have discovered Koltorin’s private rooms, and the hidden passage beneath the rotted rug that leads to what they seek… they gave the bedroom itself only a cursory look, before descending. They gave the ruined antechambers even less of a look, or they might have realized that the large black chair in the southern room, covered as it is in mud, debris and slime, is made of solid onyx…

The passage beneatht the rug is a shaft crudely lined with brick, and rusting iron handholds, that descends ten meters, debouching into a slightly larger chamber of weeping dirt, braced with rotting wood. To the west is a break-in to a tunnel lined with the psudeostone of the Ancients – apparently naturally shifting forces cracked the almost indestructible material, which allowed someone (Koltorin? The Khundari?) to widen an opening .

The passage ends in a flight of stairs going down another three meters, and a blank wall of psuedostone. Water trickles down the gently sloping hall, and down the stairs, forming a pool about 50 centimetrs deep. But mud stains on the walls would indicate that the water level has been as high as half a meter above the top of the stairs.

The only way to open the secret door is to place a hand in the center of the wall and simply will it open – like a great many Ancient devices, it is psionically activated.

Inside the room revelaed when the door slides silently open, is a low platform around a central column of black stone that seems to absorb all light. As with most Ancient facilities, a diffuse pearly glow seems to emenate from the very air in the chamber. The four men standing before the pillar (it’s hard to tell if it’s round or square due to the intense nature of its light absorbtion) have their backs to the door, and if the group is quiet may not notice them for a moment.

They are all intently focused on a crystal globe that one of them is holding… about the size of a large coconut, it glows with a pulsing purple light that’s almost beyond the visible spectrum for humans. Once the Korönians do notice the intruders, the Knight will lead the two Warriors into battle against them, while the Knight Commander continues attuning himself to the Ancient artifact.

About the time the first of his men goes down he will shout in triumph, raising the globe toward the black pillar, screaming that the unbelievers will be the first to die under Koltorin’s weapon! For a moment nothing happens, then the column of blackness begins to dissapate, like a fog slowly blowing away into nothingness. What’s  revealed seems to take even the Commander aback – it’s a ginormous spider body, with the upper body of a man in place of its own upper thorax. The humanoid part is of jet black skin, with white hair, glowing faceted red eyes and a large mouth full of razor sharp teeth. The spider body is black with a white gray-spotted underbelly, the legs white, fading to blood red at the claws.

It wields a trident and a long knife, as well as its two forward claws. Each turn it gets two attacks, plus any TA it may gain. Attacks can be any combination of it’s weapons, but only once for each one (except claws, which can be used twice). It also casts a psychic “web” that attmepts to ensnare and put its prey to sleep. Each time a victim fails a mental roll, he/she accrues 10 (MF) or 20 (CF) Fatigue Points.

While the demon has strong armour, it is particularly vulnerable to fire, which it hates and fears. If it takes real damage, and particularly fire damage, it will attempt to bound past the humans and flee up the passage. It moves very fast, and if it makes it into the passage it will elude any pursuit, escaping onto the moors. If this happens, it probably won’t be the last we hear of it, as it begins a reign of night-time terror in the surrounding region.

The Korönians will fight beside the PCs, once they relaize they have no control over the creature – the orb only freed it. Which is why even the insane Koltorin didn’t try to relase and use the void-spawned monster. If the Grandmaster had bothered to read Koltorin’s journal, which was mouldering but readable on his desk in the bedroom, he would have learned that the Mad Astrologer had come to belive it took four people to properly control whatever was held in the “black stasis column.” He didn’t know what it was, only that it was immensely powerful, powerful enough to frighten even the Ancients who imprisoned it.

If Grandmaster Yoridar is killed, it will have a certain impact on the Darikazi civil war; and if he is taken alive and held by the Arushali authorities, it could have even more unexpected consequences!

Besides some fine weapons on the Darikazi, there are several valuable books in readable condition, and several new spells for the magic-weilding PCs, perhaps a religious treatise for Vulk, as well. Amongst the gold and gems in Koltorin’s chest will be a Matrix Crystal attuned to Yalva – roll 2 + 1d10 to determine how much of a benefit Devrik will get from it once he attunes himself to it.

The Arushali Crown will confiscate most of the 150,00 gp in actual treasure,  however, leaving the Hand with a 10% “finders fee.” The Star Council will, of course, take over the Ancient site, sealing it off as too dangerous for further exploration.

Yet another re0cap that will have to wait on some free time… >sigh<

But it was really cool – pirates, a great sea battle, a devastating Kraken attack, shipwreck, an underwater battle with shark-men, and a new undersea warship of the Tritani!